


Wuthering Holodecks

by lori (zakhad)



Series: Captain and Counselor [8]
Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-17
Updated: 2009-12-17
Packaged: 2017-10-04 12:12:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zakhad/pseuds/lori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Troi goes overboard with some classic literature and a holodeck simulation, with mixed results.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wuthering Holodecks

_Men always want to be a woman's first love. Women have a more subtle instinct: What they like is to be a man's last romance.  
~ Oscar Wilde ~_

_Everything starts as somebody's day dream. ~ Larry Niven ~_

_Let other pens dwell on guilt and misery. ~ Jane Austen ~_

__

_~^~^~^~^~_

He found another note. The fifth one. He picked it off the pillow of the made bed, the wrinkle-free well-tucked covers obviously not having had contact with her shapely posterior -- and he was doing it again. Imagining her body, in or out of clothing, in uniform, in one of his old shirts with the curve of her buttocks peeking out from under. . . . He shook himself out of it and unfolded the paper.

Just two words, written in blue ink: 'holodeck two.' The paper smelled like her favorite perfume, but faintly, as if she'd been careful not to stain the whiteness with even the most minute droplets. Beneath the words, the faint impression of lip prints, in dark red.

The notes had appeared one by one. The first one, on his pillow when he woke -- she never rose before he did, but that morning she was gone before he opened his eyes, leaving the fragrance of her perfume in the air and a crisp white sheet of stationery with one word carefully centered over a print of red lips. 'Lonely.'

The second note had been in the ready room, on his desk. Folded twice, and tucked under a corner of the monitor, where he would see it only after he sat down. Another set of lip prints, another word. 'Lascivious.'

The third had appeared in his quarters when he'd gone there looking for her. Somehow she'd managed to be gone -- he had asked the computer her location. Only another sheet of paper waited for him, flat on the living room table. Another set of lip prints, another word. 'Lace.'

The fourth, in her office when he'd gone looking for her a second time. 'Longing.'

He changed clothes, out of the uniform. A loose white shirt -- he was keenly aware of the material sliding over his skin, the contact reminding him of her touch. The notes had kept his thoughts on her all day, sometimes in ways he shouldn't be thinking on duty, but this was one of those un-busy, in-between days. The type of day on which cadets were put through simulations and drills while senior officers watched, and the captain could get away with loitering in his ready room or wandering the ship playing supervisor. He'd loitered more than he'd wandered.

Deanna had obviously put forth a lot of effort in making herself scarce. Every time he asked the computer her location, he found her already gone by the time he got there. He almost called her directly but stopped himself. This was a game. A new one, and on a grander scale than any other she'd yet played. That fact alone stimulated his imagination and fueled anticipation.

The mirror showed him nothing out of the ordinary. Anyone seeing him in the corridor was likely to think he was on his way to indulge in one of his equitation programs on the holodeck; that he'd dressed for riding because she liked seeing him in anything form-fitting would probably not occur to them.

The holodeck doors wouldn't open until he put in their shared privacy code. He stepped into complete darkness, and the doors sighed shut behind him.

The interior of the holodeck felt like a sauna. Then, as his eyes struggled to adjust, he made out a dim red glow, and went toward it. His shirt was rapidly becoming damp, especially in the armpits. The soles of his boots struck what sounded like wood panel flooring.

"Stop," came a low, husky voice. Hers, of course. He obeyed.

The scrape and flare of an old-fashioned matchstick appeared before him. In the light of the single flame, he could make out her face, surrounded by the darkness of her hair, her eyes deep wells of night. She held out the match and lit a candle standing on a table at her right. Shaking the match out, she used the candle to light others, until a candelabra with six tapers cast a pale yellow glow about them.

"A house," he murmured, looking around. The red glow had been embers in a huge fireplace. "Terran. Mid to late nineteenth century, perhaps. No electricity. . . ." He stared at her, losing the power of speech. She was covered from head to toe in a loose, billowing, filmy-white gown, part of it wrapped over her head like a cloak. Concealing and revealing at the same time -- he could see the lines of some sort of undergarment through it when she moved.

"M'lord sounds weary from his long ride," she said, gliding forward and gesturing at a chair at the edge of the hearth. "Come sit, and allow me to make you at home."

He went with her to the chair and sat. While she pulled his boots off, she kept her eyes downcast; setting the boots near the fire, she rose from her knees, and he couldn't help watching the shift of her breasts beneath the sheer fabric when she moved.

"Would m'lord like something to drink? Or perhaps something to eat? I found some fruit just this afternoon in the markets. I know m'lord's fondness for ripe peaches, so sought out the sweetest and firmest of them for his pleasure."

"You must forgive me, I am very tired -- what is your name?"

She looked shocked and hurt at that. "You do not remember me?" Then she recovered somewhat, and her lips hinted at a smile. "Or is this one of m'lord's little fancies, that you play with forgetfulness? I am slow-witted -- forgive me. I am, of course, whoever you wish me to be."

He wished, all right. But curiosity won out -- her speech patterns had even been altered. This was an elaborate fantasy world she'd created. "Diana," he said, picking something close to reality for his sake. "If you gathered fruit for me I would be remiss in not accepting it."

"I will bring you fruit, then, m'lord. Is there anything else you require?"

"There are many things, but. . . later. For now, something to eat, and drink."

She left the room in a whisper of fabric, disappearing through a heavy, creaking door he hadn't noticed in a dark corner. With her gone he could pay attention to the rest of his surroundings. It reminded him of something out of Poe, dark and forbidding, with the lick of candlelight and the glow of embers the only relief in the blackness. The one window seemed shrouded in heavy black curtains. He tried to remember what she'd been reading lately, in hopes of explaining the brooding raven statues on either end of the mantel, or the dismal stuffed elk's head on the wall to the right of the fireplace. This must be a stock setting she'd tailored to suit her whimsy. Why would she pick this, of all places and time periods? He would expect a beach or a meadow, a forest, anything but this gloom. And the little details that kept him from suspending disbelief -- a match? That filmy thing she wore? She wasn't completely ignorant of Terran history, but obviously some of the nuances of this period had escaped her.

Ah, well. She'd obviously gone to a lot of trouble for him -- might as well see what happened next. Knowing her, it would all end up happily enough.

When the door opened again, a crack of thunder and a flicker of lightening at the window made him jump. She brought a tray and settled it on the arms of the chair, trapping him there. She'd laid out a dish of sliced peaches, a tall tumbler of water, and a napkin and fork.

She sat on a shorter chair to his left and picked up napkin and fork. While he stared at her in surprise, she tucked the napkin in the collar of his shirt and picked up a peach on the fork, offering it to him. He ate it, then took the fork away from her. She used her fingers to get another slice, pressing it into his mouth, rubbing his lower lip with a fingertip. The fruit was as she said, sweet and firm, and he wondered if she'd gotten it from the arboretum -- there was a peach tree down there.

"It's very warm, isn't it?" she said. "I am sorry now that I built such a fire earlier. I am almost tempted to open the window, but for the coming rain." Her voice hadn't wavered from that low, husky tone that made him stare. She undid the top four buttons of the robe, revealing pale skin, and fished an ice cube from the glass of water. Never mind that ice cubes hadn't existed in the same time frame as the house, it was more relevant to note the way the ice melted as she applied it in slow strokes to her throat. When it was gone, she took another piece of fruit and fed it to him. The chill lingered on her fingertips.

Another peal of thunder, followed by a flicker of lightening. She looked behind him, at the shrouded window. "These storms frighten me so. Since the lightening struck the old elm I fear that it will someday strike the house. But m'lord's presence here makes me feel safe," she added, smiling, reaching for another peach slice. "It has seemed more than a fortnight since you left -- this is such a dreadful house for a woman alone. I fear that someday you will decide to remain in London and leave me here."

"Why would I do that?"

She bowed her head -- where had she come up with this persona? Very convincing, the way she played this role, with flushed cheeks and the apparent inability to meet his eyes. "M'lord has told me so many stories of life in London. Sometimes I wish I could go, but there would be no place for me there."

"Certainly there would be -- you would be with me. And as lovely as the women in London can be, you are lovelier still."

"M'lord," she chided, smiling and turning away. She touched her hair self-consciously. "I am only a poor girl from the moors, no noble-woman. I am happy to serve you, m'lord, and play your small games -- but you jest, surely you wouldn't think that such as myself would have any place amidst such fine ladies."

He stared at her, trying to understand this -- she had created such an elaborate fantasy world, only to play the part of a servant? When he lifted the tray she was there to take it from him in an instant and set it on the table. Then she knelt in front of him, taking his foot in her hands and rubbing it as if it were her duty.

"Come here, please. Get up."

She rose, hesitant, eyeing him but stepping close. When he caught her hand and tried to tug her down in his lap, she pulled away with an unexpected show of defiance. "Oh, *fie!* I told m'lord I would not countenance such improprieties! A poor maid I may be but I am no wanton, to let you sit me on your knee. I dress as you please and I play your games -- now you wish this? I cannot!"

Amazing how entrenched she was in this role. He couldn't quite manage it, but made the attempt. If she could make him the lord of the manor, he could play the part. "I'm not playing a game."

The thunder crashed again. And then rain pelted the window, and one of her hands flew to her mouth. She looked truly distressed. "Oh, such weather! I must close the flues."

"If it -- wait," he exclaimed, rising when she turned to flee. "Wait. Don't run from me."

She hesitated, on the brink of racing for the door, and turned slowly toward him but still looked at the floor. "You have always been kind to me. But I have heard the rumors, begging your pardon, m'lord -- when I started here they did tell me in the village that your last maid departed under. . . shameful circumstances."

"She departed because she wished to, and I would never take advantage of you. I'm in love with you. Certainly you realize that by now." He reached for her, and this time she didn't pull away from him. She held herself stiff, however, and looked in his eyes with convincing alarm and dismay.

"You say this," she whispered. "You say you love me -- is that not how all men would begin? I am only a maid with no -- "

"You are what I say you are. Correct?"

"I don't know. You confuse me -- how do you say you love me, when all I have ever done is prattle like a mockingbird in the garden and cook and clean? I am no lady. Just a simple girl you found amusing, and useful."

His hand tightened on her arm. He kissed her cheek, a gesture that made her entire body tense. "I love you."

"Oh, how you wound me!" she cried, twisting out of his grasp. "You toy with my affections! I am not so simple to think that the lord of the house would wish anything more than to take his pleasure with me then discard me."

"If I wish to make you the lady of the house, that is my prerogative, is it not?"

She posed, raising her head as if taking the new role of lady of the house already, but backed a step. "It would not be proper -- "

"To hell with propriety! I know what I want." She moved aside at his slow approach, watching him pick up the candelabra. "You will not be discarded. Am I not a man of my word?"

"M'lord has always been a man of his word," she breathed, her eyes wavering between his face, the flames on the candles, and the floor. "But this is so sudden -- "

"Come take this and show me to my chambers." He'd meant it as a distraction, not an affirmation of her servitude, and regretted it at once. But she took the candles, led him from the room into a huge hall, and glided like a ghost toward the massive staircase against the wall opposite. Lightening flashed outside, illuminating huge windows on either side of the entry. He almost expected a raven to quote 'nevermore' from the sill over the heavy wooden door, or to hear a beating of the tell-tale heart.

The place was cold. Bone-deep cold, like any ancient hall would be. Amazing how accurate this was in some respects, and how inaccurate in others. He regretted leaving his boots behind; the floor felt like ice under his stocking feet. He watched her feet -- how was she walking barefoot without dancing around or turning blue? She liked warmer environs than this. Nothing about this reflected her usual preferences, but since she expected him to warm her up he couldn't complain.

The chamber she led him to was as dark and gloomy as the rest of the house, with a huge canopied bed against the wall to his left, and a fireplace to the right. She placed the candles on a table and put a log on a banked fire, then drifted to the window, where she drew heavy curtains over thinner ones, muffling the sound of the rain against the glass.

He followed her quietly as he could, and caught her wrist when she whirled, startled, at his approach. Her rapid breathing, evidenced by the movement of her chest and parted lips, said she'd inserted herself into the role very well indeed; she studied his face, dismay and fear in her eyes.

"I won't hurt you," he murmured, kissing the back of her hand. The spatter of rain against the window slowed and stopped, but the wind continued its complaint, moaning and sighing. "I swear it. Trust me."

"It would have been better if I had never come to work here," she whispered. But she took a step closer, turning to face him, her defensive posture giving way. Pulling free of his grip on her wrist, she took his hand then let go, as if uncertain. "Better if I had never met you. . . . I would not feel the heat of your eyes."

In the firelight coming from across the room, she seemed a ghostly apparition. He pulled gently at the robe she wore, slid his hand inside it, curving fingers around her neck and shoulder -- her skin felt warm to the touch, and smooth. When his lips brushed her collar bone she gasped and threw her head back, moving into the touch but keeping her arms at her sides.

She stood with closed eyes and let him look at her, only moving when touched -- into his hand, not away. Her body tense, almost vibrating, she stood in his arms, her nipples pressing through her filmy clothing and even perceptible through his shirt. She trembled as he grazed down her jaw and throat.

"M'lord," she moaned as he pulled open the robe. "I am afraid."

"I told you not to be."

Her eyes opened, wide and dark, tragedy-stricken, and she backed out of his reach. "I'm sorry, but this is so new -- I have never been touched this way."

Raising an eyebrow, he studied her negligee, sheer white with lace edging along the low-cut brassiere, and smiled at the matching panties, actually more of a thong with a knot tied on the left hip to hold it up. One of those odd little outfits she came up with after sifting through replicator menus. The setting seemed less and less important all the time. He couldn't look at her and see anyone but Deanna -- albeit a shy, virginal version of her, who somehow knew how to sensuously feed him peaches and play with ice -- but that didn't matter, either.

"You should sit, and I will rub your feet." She gestured at the large wing-back chair, just like the one downstairs, at the edge of the hearth. He went along with it, of course. She fell to her knees on the rug, within reach of his feet; hesitating, she smiled at him. "Do I make you happy, m'lord? Does my welcome please you?"

"It would make me happier if you would call me by name."

"I couldn't do that." She looked at his stocking feet, as if unsure of what to do now.

"Even if it made me happy? I'd be even happier if you'd come up here with me."

She stared, so carefully expressionless that she had to be waiting for him to catch on to something. . . . and it occurred to him what she'd been reading, and suddenly everything was clear. One of his antiques, a book called Wuthering Heights, gothic romance, and one he'd never gotten far in. Aside from historical value he hadn't found it interesting; there were other historical texts from the same period he found more interesting. An essay he'd read once had talked about such books -- in so many of them, relationships between servants and their masters became a major plot point, as romance between them was considered scandalous. And though Wuthering Heights hadn't been about that, so far as he could recall, another book written by another of the Brontes, Jane Eyre, had been about nothing else.

What a time period of human history for her to develop an interest in -- what a thing for her to choose for a holodeck fantasy! Things could have been worse, though. At least she hadn't given him a mad wife locked in a tower.

Then he remembered, with a plummeting feeling of doom, a reference she'd made in passing not two days ago, to that little Sherwood Forest adventure with Q. He dismissed it at once. She wouldn't inflict an imitation elephant on him in the middle of a seduction fantasy.

"What would please you?" she asked, her low voice uneven and her face flushed. It brought him back from his musings. She hadn't been reacting to his emotions, he realized, but that could change if he continued to hover between disbelief and participation this way. He looked at her, out of place in these surroundings, and did his best to set all else aside. The notes, his initial anticipation of this in mind, the physical proximity of a body he knew intimately -- he could let her play the part of an innocent if she wanted, as long as she didn't remind him of her supposed servitude.

And of course, even that had been off. She'd behaved too familiarly for a maid of the period -- she was accustomed to servants who were really simply employees, and not another social class.

He shook himself and refocused. No more analytical thinking!

"Come to me." He held up a hand. She rose and took a step toward him, finally into his reach. This time she came down into his lap willingly and straddled his knees. She stared as if fascinated by the bulge in his pants and innocent of its cause.

"You appear uncomfortable," she said, without a trace of the seductive insinuation he would expect under normal circumstances.

"You could make me more comfortable."

She continued the innocent act convincingly, looking puzzled, though a certain set of her mouth told him it was beginning to be difficult to maintain. And again, that realization that shook him from the fantasy. She'd behaved for a little while almost as a proper virgin of the time period, but hadn't run away -- she wanted persuasion. The trouble was, seduction wasn't one of those things he did well. All his encounters with women had been a matter of mutual desires, more negotiation than persuasion.

"You want to please me, yes? But you don't understand how?"

"Teach me how. I would do it, if you will touch me that way again. . . I would do anything for you to touch me." She leaned forward, gapping the open gown and giving a view down the top of a scant brassiere penning in her breasts.

He leaned forward and kissed her. Acting this to the hilt, she performed in character -- almost bumping noses, pulling away at once, looking slightly cross-eyed and ready to flee. A hand on her arm to steady her, he tried again, gently. She inched closer and let her hands rest lightly on his chest as she made a good show of trying to follow his lead. While the lesson progressed, the sense of displacement faded. Some things were learned by doing, and if she wanted to go back to relearn this from him, who was he to complain? Besides, how flattering, that she wanted to learn exactly what he wanted. Perhaps that was why she'd done this to begin with.

She broke away, panting softly, tense and looking down at herself as if she couldn't figure out how he'd gotten the robe off her or how the brassiere had been loosened. An inarticulate sound burst from her when he slipped a hand around a breast, nosed the bra out of the way, and pulled gently at the nipple. Suction, then teeth. Her fingers dug into his arms as she tensed and trembled.

Her reactions were so affected by the persona she'd adopted. Was it not knowing what to expect from her next that made it exciting? Or that he could finally pretend, and found the idea of a virginal lover stimulating? She let him pull her a few inches closer, hovering with uncertain eagerness, and closed her eyes when he kissed her again and pulled her down against him at last.

This time, she seemed aware of his surreptitious clothing removal, but as she sat up the thong fell away and his fingers found wetness. Shocked, she cried out and fell forward, grabbing the front of his shirt. A few murmured encouragements from him reassured; soon he had her helping him, unfastening his pants in between her gasps and wriggles at what his fingers were doing. And then, as he guided her hand to touch him, she stared at his erection as if she'd never seen one before. Completely in keeping with her persona and completely distracting.

Of all people to look clueless about what to do with an aroused man! Guileless questioning in her eyes, she closed her fingers around him without her usual self-assuredness. Reaching, he put his hands over her buttocks and pulled, guiding her gently until finally, finally, contact was made.

The touch of her wetness, her warmth -- god, he wanted this --

Resistance?

He *almost* lost it -- what the hell was going on? Then it all came clear in a flood of shocked awareness. Someone had been playing with a regenerator and letting her imagination run away with her.

It was too much to parse instantaneously -- though he could keep his composure pretty well externally, the urge to laugh nearly overwhelmed him. She broke out of her virginal persona with a vengeance. Eyes glittering coldly, sliding off his lap, she left him sitting there.

"Oh, hell," he gasped when the door slammed. "Dee! DEANNA!"

He fastened his pants, and in the hall he received a slap to the chest -- cold. How had she stood it? More importantly, where was she? A distant closing of a door gave him a direction, at least.

The only door in the hall that would open led him to her, in another dimly-lit, cavernous bedroom, this one minus the candles but with a bright fire. She'd curled up in a chair on the hearth, wrapped herself in a blanket, and as he approached she turned her face away and closed her eyes. "I don't want to talk about it."

"It isn't what you thought, Dee. I wasn't laughing at you."

"I don't see anything else you could have been laughing at."

"You shocked the hell out of me -- why would I expect to find a virgin? Especially since I have every reason to believe the contrary. Not to mention. . . ."

She opened one eye, the only one he could see, and peered at him skeptically. "What?"

"I've never met one before. That I'm aware of. I mean, I've never -- "

"You've been one, but never had one." He hated the caustic tone.

"And this setting," he exclaimed, waving a hand. "I never would have guessed you might come up with this! I think I know why, but it put me off balance from the minute I walked in -- I'm sorry, cherie, forgive me. I didn't mean to laugh. You put so much effort into this and -- "

"And it was hilarious."

Her clipped, wounded tone was so unlike her. Sighing, he leaned on the arm of the chair and tried to find her hand in the folds of the brown blanket. It only made her pull closer in on herself.

"It wasn't funny, Dee. You tried to create something I would appreciate."

"Tried," she snarled. "And failed."

"I do appreciate it. Maybe not the way you intended, but. . . there were things that shook me out of the fantasy. You've obviously researched it, but there were tiny details that were off just far enough to startle me back to reality. And it was too difficult for me to see you as anyone but Deanna -- impossible to adopt a persona in which I had a servant. I can't put myself in that mindset well enough to make it work. I should have stopped you sooner, but you'd done so much that I didn't want to spoil it."

Her ire apparently gone, she murmured, "You didn't have to do anything, it was flawed from the beginning -- I should have known you wouldn't like it. I'm sorry."

She sounded absolutely miserable. Hoping she sensed his sympathetic hurt, he sat a while on the chair arm, staring into the flames and remembering best laid plans gone awry, with warmth from the fire on his chest and the cold of the room at his back. Something told him any anecdotes of his own miserable romantic failures would be poorly received. Without looking at her, he picked up the edge of the blanket and slid under it; she rearranged herself to make room in the chair.

"Cold," he muttered. She said nothing, just settled next to him in the chair, arm to arm and thigh to thigh. Risking it, he glanced out of the corner of his eye. She seemed to be looking at the window, though it had heavy curtains over it like the others.

The crackling fire and the warmth of her body did away with the lingering cold. Since she wasn't actively running from him or trying to send him away, he decided to try. "I'm sorry."

"Hm."

"If I'd been prepared for it, or perhaps a little less distracted by my inability to set aside reality, I would have enjoyed it. I knew it was possible, but I'd not thought about it -- what motivated you to do it?"

She said nothing. But she looked into the fire, giving him a view of her profile, and her solemn expression spoke of contemplation.

"The setting isn't entirely unpleasant, you know." He risked a deliberate touch, finding her hand where it lay on her leg. Rather than hold it, he slid a fingertip under her palm and ran it around in slow circles. "Cold night, warm fire. . . . Passionate virgin."

"This was the stupidest idea I've ever had."

Judging from her tone, she was crying as she turned away again. And again, he experienced a jolt of realization -- the setting was historical, Terran, and her attempt at creating something he could enjoy on several levels. Context, Jean-Luc, he chided himself derisively. That comment about the Q fantasy had been an attempt at fishing for information. They'd been discussing missions, reminiscing about the entertaining aspects of some of them -- a conversation she'd initiated, in fact -- and she had pointed out that the later experiences with Q differed from the earlier ones, in that he'd actually enjoyed aspects of the Robin Hood scenario. And he had admitted it; she'd been there to sense the truth. The historical aspects, the adventure, played as if on a holodeck but with real jeopardy. The authentic feel of the experience.

And there were other clues, in hindsight, that he now recognized. In the evenings when he came in for dinner, the padd she'd set aside so casually but so pointedly out of his line of vision. The contemplation of his bookcase that ended when he entered the room. The 'girl's night out' with some of the sickbay staff, an unusual thing for her to do; on this ship she hadn't found many friends she enjoyed spending time with. He could guess part of the conversation had gone medical, specifically regenerative technology and its capabilities. She'd planned this for days.

What an ungrateful shithead he was being.

Groveling would make it worse, for both of them. All he could think of doing was to turn and pull her close, wrap his arms around her and hold on until she did something. She could tell how guilt-ridden he was, how much he loved her -- words were of no use.

The silence of the room, other than the crackle of the fire, helped. The rain and thunder were gone. She lay in his arms, gradually relaxing, shifting position twice -- once to nestle closer to him and conform her body to his, and again to cover his hand where it rested companionably on her hip. He drifted without coherent thought, letting himself relax into the warmth of her presence and the physical warmth of the fire and blanket and the soft, beautiful body in front of him.

And quite suddenly, he knew what he had to do.

When he picked her up, blanket and all, she buried her face in his shoulder, nuzzling up until he felt her nose against his throat. He demanded the arch and called up, by the numbers, the chateau program. His boots appeared on the floor nearby as particles rearranged themselves behind him. Taking a moment to step into them, thanking his return to more frequent visits to his equitation programs that had broken in the leather so well they went on easily, he carried her from the front lawn around the house, then into the woods behind it.

"Where are we going?" she murmured.

"Here," he exclaimed, sliding down the last few yards of the hill on dead leaves and pushing his way through underbrush. She was getting too heavy to bother going around. Emerging beneath the branches of the oak tree, he glanced around at the dead oak leaves and up at the tree house. "You'll hurt your feet if I put you down. Put your foot there."

She stretched out a leg and inserted her toes in the slightly-worn knot that was the first step in the 'ladder' up the tree. Her left foot and hand went out simultaneously, her right hand gripping his for balance, and her weight shifted from him; he caught the edges of the blanket before it fell from her and waited as she rearranged it then climbed up.

Seeing her naked but for the blanket in the treehouse made more sense to his rational mind than in a negligee in the house that Poe built, or Heathcliff, or whoever. She waited as he climbed up and tugged at his boots helpfully, then tried to climb in his lap.

"Hold on, just wait," he exclaimed, leaning and reaching up the trunk into a hollow in the tree. When he brought down the bag she tilted her head and smiled quizzically. When from the bag he produced a box of chocolates, she smiled wider.

"Truffles?" she asked, half-hoping.

"I was working on this but hadn't quite finished it -- there was supposed to be an orchestra sitting in the next tree over, and a full moon, and champagne. But I did get truffles into it."

He was kidding about most of the details, she probably knew that, but it had little effect. She reached for one, sadness flooding her eyes, and he recognized it as a result of being reminded of her own attempt at creating a program he'd enjoy. "So when are you going to program something from Betazed for me?" he asked, choosing a truffle for himself.

"I don't think. . . ." One of the things Deanna did most fetchingly was consternation. Her thoughts may not be audible, but the feelings they caused were visible -- her brow furrowed, her eyes suddenly registered shock, and she turned to him with a comical expression of woe that somehow transmuted to relief.

"Never." Then, a smile, oddly blissful. "Thank you for putting it into perspective for me."

"Putting. . . what?"

She shook her head slowly. "How much do you know about Betazoid culture?"

"I've read about it, talked to Betazoids about it, though not in great depth. I've been there a couple of times."

"How much do you know about the Houses of Betazed?"

"Well. . . not much. There are at least five, aren't there?"

"Six." The smile turned into a grin. "Let's talk about something other than anyone's traditions, hm?"

"Dee, you know that I do appreciate what you tried -- "

"I was out of my element. I thought I could understand -- but being half human and working among them for most of my life doesn't give me any advantages when it comes to their history. I'm sure my perception of the Old West is just as laughable, when it comes to historical accuracy. I was raised on Betazed by my mother and for a few years by my father, who wasn't so rooted in his own ethnic background or as fascinated by history as you. My roots obviously have very little in common with yours. I may as well have attempted speaking ancient Vulcan or singing Klingon opera."

"Thank you for not trying Klingon opera. I've seen you wave around a bat'leth."

Deanna pulled the blanket closer around herself. "I don't know any opera, I don't intend to learn, and I'm supposed to be learning French, anyway."

They were both sitting cross-legged, knee to knee, and the platform was too small for much moving around. He kissed her, meaning it to be one of many and work up to more, but she leaned into it. "Not like any virgin I've ever imagined," he exclaimed as she pushed the chocolates out of his lap and settled on her knees in front of him. She glanced down, then her forehead impacted his shoulder.

"I feel so silly for that."

"Actually, it was the most interesting part of the whole scenario. And it isn't even my birthday."

"You like it? I suppose it wasn't a total loss, then." She draped her arms over his shoulders. "And I suppose you'll have to do something about it anyway."

With both arms around her, he arranged the blanket one hand at a time and put her on her back. She lay waiting while he dealt with his pants, bumping her knees occasionally. "There isn't much room, sorry. Though it was designed that way, you know."

"I'm sure all the little French girls appreciated that."

"Leave them out of this." He settled over her and kissed her, distracted by one of her heels planting itself in the small of his back. "What kind of virgin is it that does that?"

"You want me to go back to uncertain and skittish?"

"You were very convincing -- that was what I found amusing, really. How you could go from that wild woman who manages to shock me to a naive big-eyed virgin who can't believe how *big* it is. . . . What the hell are you giggling about?"

"Never mind, you're right. That was exactly what I was thinking!" She kept giggling, and he eyed her suspiciously, knowing it would make her giggle harder. When she did, he kissed her briefly, then raised his head again. Their eyes met for a few moments; he could see reflections of himself in hers.

"I love you, Deanna."

He thought she was about to cry, but a smile and happy glittering in her eyes rescued the moment. "That's what they all say," she said, touching his face with gentle fingers. "At least I know that it means something more than words, with you." Before he could attempt a reply, she pulled his head down and kissed him, not briefly, her fingers twining across the back of his neck.

She seemed to find a compromise between the clueless persona and the lover he'd been getting to know -- she didn't flinch at his touch or give him puzzled looks, but she let him take the lead more than usual. Her mouth tasted like chocolate; he interspersed leisurely explorations of it with kisses along her throat and attention to her nipples. She interrupted him to pull off his shirt. He found she'd covered her face with it, when he raised his head from nibbling along her collar bone,

He put an end to the tug of war that ensued as he tried to remove it -- sucking on that sensitive spot behind her ear made her let go, and as her arms went around him and she moved against his bare chest, he forgot about the shirt entirely. He also forgot about one other detail until he came up against it again. Arcing her back, she gave him no opportunity to do anything else, pushing herself over him with a shudder that made him hesitate.

"I forgot what that felt like," she murmured, giggling.

"Does it -- "

"Hurt? What, do you all have the same *script*?" Her teeth closed on his throat briefly. "Come on, impress me, *big boy.*"

His response made her yelp, but she didn't laugh. Successive thrusts made her moan. His mouth joined to hers, he lost himself in the feel of her body straining against his, her legs wrapped around him, her hands flat against his shoulders pulling him down and herself into his arms.

Something was *different.* He couldn't put a label on it. But there was more to this than the feel of her skin, or the pleasure of being inside her. She pulled away slightly, apparently sensing the hesitation, then he felt her smiling against his lips.

{I don't know how, either, but stop thinking and let it happen.} She thrust her tongue into his mouth and dug her nails into his back. He renewed his efforts, and then it had a label -- somehow, what he did to her echoed back to him. Distantly, like sound coming through a wall, but he felt her pleasure response to his actions.

He collapsed, panting -- but what was this? The bit of floor in his line of vision over her shoulder was standard holodeck black, with a yellow gridline. Pushing himself up, he noticed their clothing strewn nearby.

"What just happened?" he rasped, looking at her. The blissful expression on her face ebbed at the question, making him wish he'd not asked before looking; she peered at him through her lashes, her smile dwindling.

"You don't remember?" The smile reappeared at the thought. "You just made my whole week. I think I saw sparks flying. We were about to fall out of the treehouse so I ended the program."

He gave himself a moment to catch his breath. Since she let him, he rested with his head on her chest, listening to her heartbeat returning to normal. "My body tells me it had a wonderful time, I remember feeling. . . ."

"Oh, yes," she whispered after a moment of his inability to put it to words. "I know."

"But I don't remember what I did. Specifically -- I know what happened, of course, just not details of it."

"You seemed perfectly aware of everything while you were doing it."

"Were you doing something Betazoid to me?"

Her fingers found the back of his head and played with his hair. "I opened myself -- I wanted to feel you better. A bad way of putting it. I wasn't expecting. . . whatever it was."

"A feedback loop."

She giggled, her toes tracing a line down the back of his thigh. "I suppose it was. I'm sorry, I wish you could remember. I don't know why you wouldn't, unless it's just that you're not equipped for that much stimulation."

"No?" He pushed, one last time.

She laughed outright. "That wasn't exactly what I meant. Though at the moment you're not very well equipped for that, either."

"I suppose we ought to make our way back to quarters and let someone else use the holodeck."

"Probably." Then, long moments later, "Jean-Luc?"

"Mm?"

"You're falling asleep."

"Of course. Deflowering virgins is hard work. Ow! Stop pinching -- OW!"

He swore at her but got up, moving lethargically to pick up his clothing. When they emerged from the holodeck some time later after summoning and dismissing the required implements for cleaning themselves up, he found out why she'd been so forceful about it -- she must have sensed the four people standing outside. They stared after the captain and counselor; he could feel their eyes on his back until he and Deanna turned a corner. They had overrun their time by about fifteen minutes, he found out with a quick look at a panel as they went through the junction of corridors.

And in the lift, Deanna began to giggle.

"What's so damned funny?"

She held it in for a few moments, then glanced up at him again, and giggled. "It's not funny," she murmured, hardly audible over the quiet hum of the lift in motion. "I'm laughing at myself. The ironic kind of twisted humor that one resorts to, just to keep oneself from crying."

"I do appreciate -- "

"It's not that," she said. "Not at all."

The lift stopped. They strolled down the corridor on deck eight, at a measured, casual pace. "You know, if you'd read Austen instead of Bronte, this could have all been very different."

"I'm not going to read any more of your books. I thought the ones I read were all very dark and -- "

"I don't have any Austen. Not in paper. I keep some of the others as antiques, not reading material. I think you would like Austen's work better. If you'd like to understand human history better -- "

"Maybe later, after I've recovered from this last encounter with it." She smiled ruefully. "I should have discussed it with you. So much for surprises."

"Well. . . it could have been worse. Did you read 'Jane Eyre'?"

Her eyes narrowed. "I can't picture you as Mr. Rochester, sorry. The man was a weakling. The whole premise made no sense to me. Why did Jane just go away like that if she loved him?"

"I can see this will take a long time to explain," he sighed, rolling his eyes. "Victorian era morality isn't something I can describe in a few sentences. And it would be a definite mood-killer. Let's just say you would enjoy Austen in that aspect, because most of her stories end happily."

"How so?"

"By the end, the woman always gets her man, and not after he's gone blind and poverty-stricken."

"Hm. I like it better already." She gave him the once-over and a lopsided smile. "A little more realistic."

No one around in the corridor as they entered his quarters. He pulled at her simple dress the instant the doors were closed behind them, wanting to restore her to the state he'd last seen her in on the holodeck before she tied her hair back and put on clothing.

"I made an assumption that I could recreate a piece of history for you," she said, letting him hold her after he'd removed his shirt. "I thought it was something you would enjoy. But that isn't what it's about, is it? You appreciate history because it demonstrates how far we've come from where we were. And going back to it with authenticity isn't your intent. You relive parts of it but not all of it, in the Dixon Hill scenarios, but even that doesn't show the reality of the period well."

"You're being too analytical. I enjoy history because I -- enjoy it," he said, then sighed. "But I don't. I can't enjoy all of it. I wouldn't want to. I suppose that's why I haven't invited you into Dixon Hill with me, because. . . . Merde."

"What's wrong?" Those fingers along his neck again, and her cheek pressed along his.

A dissertation on archaic viewpoints on the inferiority of women would do nothing but dilute, or possibly do away with, the mood. He cupped the back of her head in his hand, kissing her hair. "I can't see you in that setting."

"So part of the problem is seeing me play a role?"

She felt so solid and real. Warm. His arms tightened around her; hers reciprocated. He could tell her hair smelled faintly of perfume, now that it brushed his face. "I'm too much in love with the reality of you to want anything else."

"I'll remember that," she whispered. "Probably forever. But. . . remind me once in a while, all right?"

"I'd love to." He paused, but couldn't resist. "Sore?"

"Not yet."

"One of the other things I love about you -- your overwhelming optimism."

She pulled away, tugged him along by the arm toward the bedroom, and tipped him on his back on the bed with a light shove. "One of the things I love about you -- your ability to rise to *any* occasion. Because Jean-Luc Picard always does his duty, whatever it is."

"Is making you sore my duty, then?"

She climbed up and knocked the air out of his lungs landing on top of him. "Estimated time of arrival, Mr. Picard?"

"Oh. . . good question."

"Check your panel. Certainly an experienced officer such as yourself could make an estimate."

"Sorry. Having someone nuzzling up to me is a little distracting. Optimistically, half an hour or so?"

"Make it so." He heard the laughter, and felt it, and was a little surprised she didn't voice it.

"How long have you wanted to say that to me? And what made this moment the right time to use it?"

Her amusement stilled. She lay heavily on him, a not-unpleasant sensation until she wriggled as if trying to climb in his skin with him. "There are moments, and there are moments. I'd like to keep this one going for another few hours."

"How about all night?" Eyes closed, he thought again of everything she had done for him, and draped an arm over her, brushing his fingers along her shoulder with the lightest of touches. "When I think of what you did for me tonight, I'll feel this way."

"Inside out?" The words caressed his shoulder.

"Dreaming with my eyes open. Inside out. Mmmm. . . now if only there were a way to make myself twenty or so years old, or at least certain aspects of me. . . ."

She giggled again. "Now who's being optimistic?"


End file.
